We had a fearless leader who took us through a dizzying maze of spices, stacked fruit, veggies in vans, and buckets of berries glittering in the sun. On the outskirts of Yerevan, Armenia we shopped with the locals at a place they call “Bangladesh” (given its distance from the center of their capital city). Though our leader spoke only a few words of Armenian, it was clear that she was much loved – having traversed the market many times before, making friends along the way. They greeted her with a kiss, would not let her pay for the fruits they put in her hand, and offered blessings for her family (at least that is what I imagined them to say). I sheepishly watched and tried to take it all in.